


Romantic

by Fogfire



Category: Mission: Impossible (Movies)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-23
Updated: 2018-10-23
Packaged: 2019-08-06 11:37:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16387058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fogfire/pseuds/Fogfire
Summary: Benji Dunn is a romantic. You? Not so much





	Romantic

And they say romanticism is dead.

There are pros and cons to dating a super spy. A spy that was so good at what they did that they must have been born as one, raised as one.

Benji couldn’t help but think of a Farm, right outside of Iowa, where farmers in black suits and black sunglasses sowed the seed of what cute little spies that could be harvested a few months later.

He snickered. You sent him a glare. He pulled his lips into a smile. Your glare intensified.

He’s used to being the second spy in command. Ethan had always been better at everything anyway. He’s used to getting his life saved and watching Ethan do things that aren’t really possible for normal humans.

And even though he isn’t really sure why you’ve picked him off all people from all the possibilities that the IMF could grant you, he’s grateful. And he’s learning not to be too scared when you fling yourself out of a moving car again, just because you think it’s the fastest way to get an explosive suitcase.

But back to the pros and cons.

You’re determined. You know what you’re talking about. You know what he’s talking about, at least most of the time. He tends to babble about movies you’ve never seen, but he’s made it his mission to educate you, even though you managed to ruin almost every movie.

And then there were the cons.

You liked riddles just a little too much. You couldn’t watch a movie without telling him how it would end right when you figured it out.

It had been cute the first time but when you’ve ruined a whole season of his favorite crime series just because you knew how the murderer was after the first five minutes, he decided crime shows just weren’t for you.

You knew how to flirt and boy, had he been flustered at a few too many occasions in your relationship, but you had absolutely no sense for being romantic. Not that he didn’t try to do your part as well.

For your six month anniversary - that you had forgotten - he had made reservations at that cozy little italian restaurant you claimed to love.

There were candles, roses, the moon shone right through the window and you glared at him over your dish of pasta like you wanted to stab him with your fork. Repeatedly.

“Sharing a single strand of spaghetti is not romantic. Stop asking.”

He grunted. “It is romantic. It’s part of one of the most iconic love stories. You liked the movie!”

“They were dogs, Benji! Dogs!”

He couldn’t help but pout. Just a little bit.

He had tried to care for you during the rare times that you got sick. You didn’t really go well with being sick.

““If I’m dying, let me eat cake.” 

“You’re not dying,” he insisted.

“Let me eat cake anyway.”

He heaved a sigh. “You have a gastric flu. I don’t want you to throw up cake.”

“Maybe I want to throw up cake.”

He glared at you. You glared back.

“Make it extra chocolate,” you demanded and he groaned and got up to get that cake.

In the end he was right. You threw up cake. And he was the one holding back your hair.

Whoever said that caring for their sick partner was romantic had never had to deal with a bad case of gastric flu.

And then the bed sharing. Not the, well, more physical bed sharing, but the sleeping over, cuddling while falling asleep, the whole deal of cutesy that came with being a couple.

With you, it was torture.

“The blanket is a shared utensil,” he groaned after one particularly cold nicht, “You can’t just wrap yourself like a burrito and leave me to freeze to death.”

“I have no control over the way I sleep,” you told him and he glared at you.

“Yes you do. I’ve seen you sleep on missions. You’re like a dog, always only half asleep.”

You stuck your tongue out at him.

And then, the hugging.

He was a hugger. A cuddler. Someone who craved physical contact just as much a air, if not more. And the closer the two of you got, the more you seemed to get the hang of it. Which would have been nice, if you had been able to control your own strength.

“You’re crushing my spleen,” he groaned as you had your arms around him.

“You don’t even know where your spleen is.”

“Doesn’t matter what the bone is called like, you’re snapping it in half.”

He’s tried talking about it. With his mother, with his friends. It’s just hard to get the words out, because he can’t really name what he’s feeling.

There are so many cons. But even when he’s suffering from an almost broken spleen and he’s lying next to you in bed, almost frozen to death, he can’t deny that he loves you, cares for you and that it doesn’t really matter that you aren’t perfect. No one is.

You’re putting up with his rambling, his love for weird movies, his antics and everything else with nothing more but a glare and a kiss to his cheek.

Who is he to ask you to change?

And right when he feels like he will just… live out his need for romanticism in old movies and even older books, you step towards him with a look of determination on your face.

He’s a little bit scared, if he’s honest.

“You love sappy things,” you say “And someone, someday is going to write a sappy poem about you. And even though it’s super cliche, you will love it to pieces. You’re so adorable.”

He looks at you in astonishment, swallowing down the uneasiness. It feels like you’re trying to break up with him.

“I don’t want someone to write it,” Benji says, “The only one I want a sappy poem from is you. But you don’t have to write one.”

“Good,” you say, pulling out a piece of paper, “Because I tried but it wouldn’t rhyme.”

And without further ado, you start to read.

And it’s horrible, sappy, as you said it would be, and it doesn’t rhyme at all.

“Why?” He asks, when you end and you shrug, as if that conveys everything that needs to be said.

“You care for me. You love me and let me know through the ways you know I understand. I’ve never did more but learn how to be a spy. You did everything else and learned to be a spy either way. So maybe I can learn to be a bit more… whatever you are, if that makes you happy. Because you make me happy too.”

Benji smiles and you glare at him, like you always do when you’re not quite sure if smiling back is okay.

And they said romanticism is dead.


End file.
